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<title>The All-Ambarino Civic Chorale by GymclassParachute</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808077">The All-Ambarino Civic Chorale</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GymclassParachute/pseuds/GymclassParachute'>GymclassParachute</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Incompetent law enforcement, The good old days tm</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:16:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25808077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GymclassParachute/pseuds/GymclassParachute</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Van der Linde gang (the scoundrels!) disguise themselves as honest men and women of the state of Ambarino.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The prairie's yellow tallgrasses were blowing in the autumn breeze as the Van der Linde gang travelled by caravan toward a job in Guthrie, Oklahoma; an <em>amuse-bouche</em> for the upcoming job in West Elizabeth they had been planning, which was to be one of their biggest scores yet. They had been up by the border between the Dakotas, where they had settled for petty schemes: stagecoach robbery, swindling some oil baron's alewashed fool of a son out of his money and pocket watch, and scrapping with the Hutchinson-Cruz gang, <em>et cetera</em>. Garden variety mischief. Dutch Van der Linde, the gang's ringmaster, had swiped a white Arabian horse from a stable in Yankton, which he had christened "The Count". An ornery, skittish horse. Hell of a creature. Hosea Matthews, Mr. Van der Linde's longtime compatriot and cofounder of the gang, rode alongside him.</p><p>A stranger, astride a Kentucky Saddler, was riding toward them. He wore a Stetson and a tan duster coat, and there was a sheriff's badge on the breast of said coat. When the two leaders of the gang noticed the star badge, they both took pause, before Dutch thought up a convincing alibi.</p><p>"Howdy!" Dutch called.</p><p>"Howdy," replied the sheriff, "Y'all from around here?"</p><p>As he said this, the sheriff rode closer to the two men, and started to ride alongside them.</p><p>"No sir. My name is Joe Ibbotson, and this is my brother, Walter. We're leading The All-Ambarino Civic Chorale."</p><p>"Really? You two don't look too similar to me."</p><p>Dutch was taken off guard. Hosea, equally quick with his wit and his scattergun, broke the brief silence.</p><p>"Well, you'll have to talk to Pa Ibbotson about that, sheriff!"</p><p>The sheriff looked at Hosea rather dimly. After a short period of time, he caught Matthews' meaning, and threw his head back in laughter. He wore a rather tacky snakeskin hatband, and the motion sent the deceased serpent's rattle into its cry, his laughter punctuated by keratin scraping against itself. Dutch and Hosea both exchanged a quick look. It seemed they had found a prize rube.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sheriff finally stopped laughing, and chased a few stray tears from his eyes. He extended a hand to Dutch.</p><p>"Wesley Rawlings, sheriff of Fort Jack, Nebraska."</p><p>Dutch shook hands with Sheriff Rawlings, as did Hosea.</p><p>"So," said Sheriff Rawlings, "you get many singers up in the mountains?"</p><p>"Oh for sure, sheriff. You take some old, moccasined mountain man and give him the right song, he'll sing fine and clear as a bird in springtime." said Dutch.</p><p>"So, are y'all headed to Omaha?"</p><p>"Yessir. We're due in Omaha in two weeks, and in Little Rock in seven."</p><p>"Shit, ain't more than three days from here to Omaha!"</p><p>"Well, I suppose we'll have some time for sightseeing."</p><p>The caravan pressed on, Dutch and Wes Rawlings jabbering on about President McKinley, and the weather in the Grizzly Mountains, and all sorts of nonsense which neither of them knew all that much about, while Hosea broke away from them and quietly told the rest of the gang their current ruse was that of a choir from Ambarino.</p><p>A few hours later, the gang had set up a camp on the southern bend of the Big Fox River, a smallish river which ran near the town of Fort Jack. Dutch and Arthur were to ride into town and scope out the town. As they both rode the dirt trail between camp and town and talked.</p><p>"So, we're gonna pretend to be a choir?"</p><p>"Yes, Arthur."</p><p>"Well, I don't know if we can fool a town into thinking that when we don't have uniforms! Not to mention most of us can't sing. Why don't we just keep pushing on, leave this town behind?"</p><p>"While I was talking to that fool of a sheriff, he mentioned that there's an heiress in town, her father made money in Mexican banking. Her birthday is soon, and he said she was in the market for entertainment for the party. If we leave now, people will be suspicious. We're wanted men, Arthur! Lawmen are still looking for us after that job in Yankton!"</p><p>"I don't know, Dutch."</p><p>"Just trust me on this, Arthur."</p><p>The two men rode into the small town of Fort Jack, and Dutch pointed out a saloon on main street.</p><p>"Rawlings told me that this town's some kind of resort town, all sorts of rich people out here. He said he'd probably be at the Pawnee Saloon."</p><p>They both hitched up their horses and walked through the solid oak doors of the saloon.</p><p>When Dutch and Arthur walked into the Pawnee Saloon, they were taken aback; they had never seen so many wealthy people in one place. There was a New York-based importer, his high-crowned hat adorned with brightly-colored feathers. A white-haired English governess, drinking gin and coquettishly flirting with a brash, young cattle baron. A young man who was the third son of a viceroy from Russian Poland, his jacket adorned with heavy, shiny medals. All of them morons. A barman worked tirelessly mixing various spirits and syrups for the clientele, and there were a variety of a stuffed animal heads on the wall behind him. Sheriff Rawlings sat at the bar, drinking a whiskey sour and laughing with a British admiral in dress uniform and a slightly-built journalist from back East. The sheriff noticed Dutch and Arthur, and he quickly sprung to his feet, this hatband faintly rattling.</p><p>"Joe Ibbotson! Admiral, this is the man I was telling you about."</p><p>The admiral took his long cigar from between his teeth. "Charmed." He said.</p><p>Dutch tipped his hat and took a seat at the bar. Arthur followed suit.</p><p>"How do you do, gentlemen? My name is Joe Ibbotson, and this is my good friend Arthur Nelson."</p><p>Arthur nodded, taking a mental note to remember his fake name. The sheriff introduced his two drinking buddies.</p><p>"Joe, this is Admiral William Ainsley-Colegrove, and Harvey Schlesinger of the Philadelphia Bi-weekly Sun."</p><p>Schlesinger tipped his straw boater hat. The admiral nodded with frosty cordiality.</p><p>"Ibbotson here is with a choir out of Ambarino."</p><p>"Is that so!" said Schlesinger. "I've never heard of such a thing."</p><p>"Yep, I'm the co-founder, as a matter of fact." said Dutch.</p><p>Sheriff Rawlings signalled for the barman.</p><p>"Harold," he said. "Two Prairie Lightning Bolts for these fellers!"</p><p>Harold, the bartender, silently took out two strangely-shaped pewter mugs.</p><p>"Harold invented the Prairie Lightning Bolt two winters ago during a blizzard. It's the signature drink here at the Pawnee."</p><p>Dutch smiled. "Fascinating. So, about this Mexican heiress."</p><p>"Ah, Miss Cordovez! Yes, her 25th birthday is coming up."</p><p>Dutch and the sheriff talked about arrangements for Cordovez's party. So engrossed were they that they didn't notice Harold making the Prairie Lightning Bolts, which involved a step of lighting the drink on fire and passing it between the two pewter mugs. The rich clientele all clapped and cheered, while Arthur only watched amazed and slightly terrified. Eventually, Harold put the drink into two glasses and served them, garnished with mint and a single staff of straw. Arthur and Dutch both took a sip. Not half bad.</p><p>After both outlaws had finished their drinks, Dutch payed Harold, stood up, and turned to Sheriff Rawlings.</p><p>"You know Rawlings, you are quite possibly the strangest sheriff I've ever met."</p><p>Rawlings smiled. "Well, Mr. Ibbotson, there's not much crime in Fort Jack. Most we get is just some kid from the surrounding farms getting into mischief, and justice is handed out by his mother for that offense."</p><p>The entire group laughed. Rawlings, Schlesinger, and Admiral Ainsley-Colegrove all drank from their glasses.</p><p>"Well, Sheriff, me and Mr. Nelson are going to have to say goodbye now. Tell Ms. Cordovez she has my thanks for agreeing to meet with me."</p><p>Dutch and Arthur shook the three men's hands and walked out of the Pawnee Saloon. Dutch chuckled to himself.</p><p>"Goddamned moron of a sheriff, I tell ya." </p>
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